Free Three Day Road by Joseph Boyden Page A

we find the right depth on a flat stretch where just our noses and half-closed eyes remain above water.
    A long time passes and the burning world around us doesn’t let up. On a smooth stretch I bang on the canoe’s side to signal Elijah. We meet in the middle. “It’s not easing up,” I say.
    “It will,” Elijah answers.
    “Let’s rest here awhile.”
    Elijah doesn’t answer.
    We wait, not speaking, leaning into the current’s pull with lolling heads. Just as I motion to Elijah that we should move forward, Elijah points above, then ducks underwater. I look up as an arc of yellow fire shoots across the river. Carried on the wind’s back, it swoops over the wide stretch of water, a bridge of flame. Just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone.
    Time moves slowly. We push the canoe against the current in the fire rain, stopping often to splash the blankets and our hair. A film of grey covers the water’s surface. “Maybe it’s coming time where we should go back the way we came,” I shout out finally, but if Elijah hears me, he doesn’t respond.
    Many fires onshore flare up at once, and I notice that the wet blankets on the canoe are smoking. Soon after, the stink of burning wool fills my nostrils. I pound on the canoe again and shout, “I think the blankets are on fire. The canoe might be too.”
    We pull the canoe in as close to the shore as the heat will allow and fill it with water so that it sinks. We load it with all the rocks we can find. Keeping our legs and bodies in the canoe, we sit again with our noses and eyes above water and wait.
    “We’re only a few days’ paddle away once we get through this,” Elijah says. “Just keep focused on that.”
    My eyes are closed later when Elijah’s foot pushes at me. “It’s getting lighter out,” he says.
    I peer through the thick haze. To my left I see some light, greater than the fire’s. This little change boosts me. “Maybe the smoke is thinning out too,” I say.
    We wait. My nose keeps going underwater, and the shock of breathing it in causes me to jolt awake, coughing. I can tell that Elijah’s tired too. I slip into half dreams, go back to my short time in the residential school, old Sister Magdalene and her stinking breath like burnt wool. I see her mouth moving as we boys sit frightened at our desks, her words pouring out like the river. “The old Cree are heathen and anger God,” she says. “The Cree are a backwards people and God’s displeasure is shown in that He makes your rivers run backwards, to the north instead of to the south like in the civilized world.” She smacks my desk with her ruler and sparks fly from it, a thin tree on fire. “When you accept Him He will perform a great miracle. He will cause the rivers in this barren place to run in the right direction.” I gasp awake when my head sinks into ashy water.
    I see a hint of morning through the smoke. We are able to climb back in the canoe and, with heads bowed low, begin to paddle through the morning. On a long curve of river, we see a sand bar splitting the water. There is enough room for the two of us to curl up. The sand is warm from the fires that still burn up and down the river. We can get a little good air close to the ground.
    “One of us should stay awake and keep watch,” I say to Elijah, but he’s already dozing lightly. Before I can fight it, I too am taken by sleep.
    We lose all track of time in this soot-coloured place. All that’s left to us is to keep paddling, one stroke after the other. Find our way out.
    Fires continue to rumble, but a little farther off now. The smoke lies so still and heavy above us that no sun is visible, and I no longer know what part of day it is.
    A darker shade, possibly night, has approached when Elijah spots the hulk of it on the shoreline. We’d have missed it if not for the unmistakable scent of burnt hide and underneath that the smell of cooked meat that makes our hungry stomachs groan. We beach the canoe and see that